


Least of All

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Miserable Wartime Shenanigans, Sex as Catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: “Sin of Onan, Grady,” Boyd says.





	Least of All

**Author's Note:**

> For [lingua](https://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com), not because she wants it but because it's her fault.

“Sin of Onan, Grady,” Boyd says, but that’s not what he’s thinking. 

What he’s thinking is: it’s cold outside, but it’s warm inside Fury. He’s thinking of fifteen minutes ago when he saw a sergeant torn in half by artillery meant for the tank beside him. He’s thinking, always, about slew and elevation and range, drawing a bead, stomping the trigger. He’s thinking how it’s all death out there, misery and agony, but only quiet in here.

“Least of my fuckin’ sins,” Grady mumbles. His hand is moving in his overalls, one strap undone. He’s lying with his knees tucked up, head cradled on the inside of Boyd’s outstretched thigh. Boyd’s stroking the back of his head with shivering fingers. Misery and agony out there. He stares at the roof so he won’t see the way Grady’s eyes are half-shut, the dent in his cheek where he’s biting the inside.

This ain’t anything new. Not in a tank Fury’s size. Grady curled up on him while he does it isn’t even new. The only thing is… Boyd can’t pretend he’s not paying attention. Not this time. He’s too shook up, too sore and tired and sick. Too desperate to keep Grady near him where he can feel heartbeat and breath.

It wasn’t the worst fight this month, not the worst this  _ week _ . But it hit Boyd in just the wrong place at the wrong time, made him throw up after, made him so pale and shaky Don took one look at him while their company looted enemy corpses and told him to get inside for a sit-down. He obeyed, and Grady clambered after him a couple minutes later.

They touch each other a lot, their whole crew. Out of necessity at first-- tight quarters, privacy a distant memory-- and now like second nature, a necessity of a different kind. Grady most of all. Boyd knows Grady was the runt of his litter of three sisters and five brothers, trained early to push and shove and paw and cuddle for warmth. Can’t leave well enough alone at the best of times. Reading them all warily like open books, always pushing for a reaction. Hungry for attention, no matter what kind.

Boyd sometimes thinks he’s never loved anything quite the way he loves Grady, not the dog he’d had as a kid, not his sister, not his daddy. Maybe not God.

Grady grunts and turns his face deeper into Boyd’s thigh. His hand is moving faster. Boyd wants to ask how he can even think of touching himself at a time like this, how his dick didn’t shrivel back up into his body at the first whiff of intestines and phosphorous, but he knows better. He knows how fear and excitement effect some men, and how Grady’s sometimes one of those men. He keeps stroking the back of Grady’s head. He’d taken his gloves off when he got back inside, thrown them in the corner because they were bloody. The stubble on the back of Grady’s bumpy head is sharp. Boyd had shaved him just two days ago, a quick buzz while they waited their turn for mess. He’d left it long on top, and he curls his fingers in that greasy snarl. He pulls Grady’s head back and looks down at him.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

Grady eyeballs him. He’s got blood splashed up one cheek. The light coming in the command hatch windows is just enough to show Boyd the grease streaked under one ear, the left eye still bruised from a boxing match Grady won against one of Able Company’s gunners three days ago. Scored Fury ten bucks from the betting pool.

“What’s it fuckin’ look like,” Grady says.

Boyd drops Grady’s head and looks away. He feels tears coming on. He wipes his hand under his nose. “Jesus,” he says, half curse and half prayer.

Grady pushes up, leaning his spare hand on the floor by Boyd’s hip, braced over his leg. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, we’re alright.”

Boyd stares past Grady’s shoulder. His chin is starting to tremble. He doesn’t mind crying, doesn’t mind doing it in front of any of the crew, or anyone at all, but tears are only a little percent of the nameless emotion thrashing around inside him, and that he  _ does _ mind. His hand returns to the back of Grady’s neck like it lives there, like that’s where it goes when it doesn’t know what else to do. He sniffs, meeting Grady’s eyes. They’re shadowed, too dark to really catch.

Grady ducks to press his face to Boyd’s, rub their cheeks together like cats. “We’re okay,” he says next to Boyd’s ear. The whole warm living bulk of him pushed up into Boyd, holding him against the mesh of the turret basket, the sweat and blood stink of him, his three-day beard scratching Boyd’s neck.

Suddenly Boyd can almost understand why nearly dying makes some men want to do what Grady was doing. What Grady is  _ still  _ doing between them, his elbow moving, teeth grinding. Boyd’s breath jumps. He wraps his other arm around Grady’s waist and pulls him in tight. Grady nestles against him, snug from head to hips, groaning.

“You’re okay,” Boyd tells him right back. “Shh, there you go.”

Maybe he’s never paid attention on purpose before, but he knows the way Grady breathes when he’s getting close. The sharp jerkiness of his movements. The tense shiver all down his spine. Boyd drops his face into the grimy crook of Grady’s neck and holds him through it, through the gasp and the moan and the shuddering. And then the sag of Grady’s big warm body, the boneless exhausted sprawl, the way he nuzzles under Boyd’s chin, saying  _ Here I am  _ and  _ Here you are _ without words.

Boyd shuts his eyes. It’s the least of his fucking sins.


End file.
